Rock-a-bye baby on the tree top,
When the wind blows the cradle will rock,
When the bough breaks the cradle will fall,
And down will come baby, cradle and all.
Let’s tackle this little
conundrum, shall we…?
The first line starts
out well…
I mean, the ‘rocking-the-baby’ part.
I freely admit, I may
have rocked a baby or two in my lifetime.
It’s soothing.
For both baby and me.
It’s that tree top that
rather sticks in my craw, so to speak.
This just sounds dangerous
on so many levels.
How do we get the baby with said cradle into the treetop? Hmmm?
I’m picturing a ladder.
Iffy steps up.
Reaching from.
And somehow fastening
at the same time?
This sounds like a job
for several strong persons with proper safety equipment...
Employing modern
methods of upping and fastening.
A lift complete with security
rails.
Hardhats.
Safety vests.
Okay, those last probably
aren’t necessary. But I like safety
vests.
Bright colours.
Enhanced noticeability.
Go with me on this…
So we’ve raised the
lift.
Now how do we ensure
said cradle with baby stays where it will be put.
Hey. I’ve watched trees in the wind.
They get rather…boisterous
and enthusiastic.
Like small children let
out for recess.
But I digress…
That basket has to be
fastened securely.
Bolts.
And maybe a steel beam or
two?
Now the cradle is
safely rocking in the wind.
Okay. I’ll accept that.
Ahhh…
Could we just stop the
poem there?
With the baby happily—and
safely—rocking in the wind.
You have to know the
next lines are—needless to say…disturbing…
Because the poet
(poetess?) blithely informs us that when the bough breaks…not if, but when…that sucker is going to
fall?
BABY AND CRADLE AND PART OF THE TREE?!
FALL?! What the
heck???!!!
And what idiot chose that bough?
Excuse me while I speak
to my safety crew…
I’m going to have to re-do…
Rock-a-bye baby, safe on the ground (Can’t you just picture
his little hard hat with safety vest?)
When the wind blows, it doesn’t matter because he’s inside
being, you know, safe.
When the bough breaks no cradle will fall…because it’s
outside, being a tree, and our baby is inside being a baby.
And down will come the bough, but sans baby and cradle (see
above) because we’re not stoop-id.
I think it’s better…
And now, my Dad’s take
on the whole strange tale of baby, cradle, bough, wind and tree…
My Dad had a speech impediment.
Sometimes, he said
things backwards.
Oh, he could
control it.
He just chose not
to.
An odd trait for
someone who was such a stickler for proper pronunciation at all other times.
And don't try to
tell me that doesn't have any effect on a young child learning to talk.
For years, I
thought the song, Rock-a-Bye Baby went like
this:
Rock a bay bybee
On the tee trop.
When the blind woes,
The radle will crock.
When the brough bakes,
The fadle will crawl.
And down will bum caby
Adle and crawl.
You’re right. That’s
not even English. But that’s how I thought it went.
And Dad said it made just as much sense his way.
I heard some kids
singing it the right way and totally confronted them.
Our conversation was as follows:
Me: What are you
singing?
Them: Rock-a-Bye Baby.
Me: That’s the
stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.
Them: Let’s play somewhere else.
As years went by, I
realized that we really didn’t put the dirty dishes in the washdisher.
Or that salt didn’t
come out of a shakesalter.
And that my
favourite ice cream wasn’t scutterbotch.
I said it anyway…
Today is Fly on the Wall time!
Where my blogging sisters,
Karen and Marcia and I reveal
what's been going on in our hearts,
lives and/or minds this month!
You've read mine...
Now go and see what they've been doing!
You'll be glad you did!